Johnlock Drabbles
by KeepCalmLoveSeverus
Summary: A place to put all of my johnlock drabbles from tumblr. Probably won't be anything new after I post what I've got - I've kind of drifted away from the Sherlock fandom. Stripper!AU, daddy!kink, fluff
1. Wings for Hire

**Every chapter is going to be a different drabble that I've imported from tumblr to AO3 and from AO3 to here, because FNet doesn't allow series linking. Therefore, I'll post the summaries and ratings up here at the top, and you can choose which ones to read!**

 **Title:** Wings for Hire

 **Rating:** T

 **Summary:** Sherlock is a stripper and a tutor for certain students at his university.

* * *

It began when he was six, and his private tutor was a very attractive (in a tall, lanky sort of way) young man. It escalated at seventeen when he convinced Mummy to allow him to go to public school for a semester ( _"Boring."_ ) and he met others like him, especially this one obviously gay "math nerd" who he allowed to kiss him, once.

It ended when Mycroft found out, and told Mummy.

Of course, the same day Sherlock Holmes' life ended, it also began.

* * *

Two years later, Sherlock Holmes had his own private dormitory, a steady job, and lessons that he _almost_ didn't fall asleep in. Almost. They were, unfortunately, the most advanced lessons his university offered; to make up for the mental exercise deficit (and to further pad his bank account), Sherlock had taken up private tutoring, in particular of one John Watson — who, while not a _complete_ idiot, had trouble fully grasping the minor complexities of the human circulatory and nerve systems.

"Sherlock," groaned the blond young man, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "We've been at this for ages, I can't possibly remember anything else tonight." To accentuate the point, he snapped his text closed sharply, the crack echoing in Sherlock's room for several moments.

Slightly irritated at being forced to acknowledge the frailties of other human beings' minds, Sherlock sniffed, "It's a wonder you remember anything at _all_ that I attempt to teach you." It was a bit risky to speak to the older student that way, especially as he was part of Sherlock's income and offending him might not go over quite so well, but John just smiled and shook his head ruefully.

"We can't all be kid geniuses, you realize?"

"I'm well aware," was the stiff, pointed reply. Stiff and pointed was how Sherlock behaved around anyone he felt even remotely attracted to, these days; he had nightmares (figuratively, of course) about someone else finding out his secret and reacting the way Mummy had, and they usually ended with Sherlock being driven from the school at pitchfork-tips.

Dramatic, yes, but Sherlock had always had a flair for that.

Shrugging off the slight, John found his customary easy grin within moments, offering, "Mike and I are going out clubbing later, if you'd like to join?" Mike Stamford, who had introduced them in the hopes of them benefiting each other, had told John that he was, "Worried about your brain exploding, spending so much time studying. You can't be a doctor if you're dead, Watson, so come out for a drink or two." And so John had agreed with very little fuss.

Sherlock regretted not being able to accept, but he had several reasons for declining with a politely sneered, "No, thank you. I've rather more important things to be doing than gallivanting about London's pubs."

Things like working at Hells' Angels, the strip club that was so far on the other side of London that there was no possible way Sherlock would meet anyone he knew, and was also his main source of income. It was a gay club, anyway (though women frequented it often, just out of pure pleasure), and Sherlock had already deduced that John was not gay, so there was even less reason to expect to see him later that evening.

Shrugging with a carefully masked disappointment, John stood and smiled again, leaving with a final comment, "Ah, well. One of these days, Sherlock."

* * *

"John, John," gasped an extremely tipsy Mike, clutching onto the more sober man's shoulders. (John had never actually been a fan of being _drunk,_ as he abhorred vomiting, but he did enjoy spending time with a tipsy Mike.) "John, I heard about this great club the other day, we should totally go, they're just down the road!"

John tried to suggest that it might be time for Mike to stop for the night, but his friend insisted, "I think _you,_ especially, will get a kick out of it," with a lewd wink.

He didn't agree that there would be anything in this bar to interest him (unless Sherlock Holmes somehow magically appeared), but he helped Mike in the proper direction, like a good friend.

Little did John know.

* * *

Sherlock, as he did every night he was on shift, had arrived half an hour early to stretch for his routine and get his prosthetics attached. See, Hell's Angels was _not_ an allusion to the biking gang — no, it was a reference to the theme, which was, in fact, a hell populated with debauched fallen angels. All of the main performers were required to wear wings during their time on stage — something Sherlock had been forced to incorporate into a routine that was, frankly, too athletic for regular strap on devices. He did graceful turns around the pole, slid up and down it like a professional dancer (thanks to several years of ballet when he was younger), and often these same tricks upside down.

It was rather undignified to have your wing-set slide off over your arms in the middle of a trick, as his managers had discovered during his audition, and so they had devised something new, just for him. Basically, a corset of feathers attached to the wings. It didn't inhibit his movement, nor did it veil any of his muscular attributes (of which he had several, not to brag), so he considered it an improvement over the tacky suspenders everyone else wore.

Sitting in the make-up chair, Sherlock contemplated John's earlier offer as he dusted a light coating of bronze glitter over his face and chest. What had been the motivation? Did John _truly_ wish to spend time in his company away from academia, or had it been a polite overture that the other man would have offered to anyone?

As his name was called for his set, Sherlock decided that it didn't matter, as it was unlikely to be extended again, and if it were, he still wouldn't feel comfortable accepting.

Walking out, Sherlock gazed into the lights, and settled into his seductive persona with little more than a roll of his shoulders.

* * *

Naked men.

 _Everywhere._

That was John's first impression of Mike's club.

The second was an immediate desire to get closer to the stage, to get a better look at the black-haired man gyrating about the top of it like sin embodied; he had a nice figure, one that almost reminded John of Sherlock's, and his wings were as jet black as his hair, though there were occasional streaks of bronze in the feathers. It was an interesting mix, for sure, and as the man continued to move about, John found himself captivated and standing at the very edge of the stage, as close as he could get, before even realizing it.

The man's muscles were smooth, lean and chiseled in all the right places, and John couldn't help but imagine those muscles flexing for a completely different reason, twitching as he fucked the man into orgasm, one hand tangled in that mop of curly hair.

Then the man turned around, and John's lip parted to release a surprised gasp. _"Sherlock!"_

* * *

The moment their eyes met, Sherlock's cheeks turned a brilliant crimson, and he finished his routine as quickly as he could without it looked unnatural, not dragging it out the way he usually did for extra tips.

No, tonight the only tip he wanted was the answer to the question, "How did John find me?"

Quickly, Sherlock shucked his outfit (or what remained of it after his performance) and threw on his customarily baggy clothing before stalking out into the general area without bothering to remove the glitter that still liberally coated his hair, face, and body. He had to find John, had to demand an explanation, had to swear him to secrecy. No one else could know.

Luckily, or perhaps not so, the other man was standing outside the employee door when Sherlock exited it; without allowing John to say whatever had been about to come out of his opened lips, Sherlock pushed him against the wall, looming down as he demanded, "How did you find me?"

How. He wanted to know how. _Immediately._

"I — I was just in the neighborhood," stammered a suddenly intimidated John. Sherlock, with his six extra inches and menacing aura, could be quite frightening when he tried it.

John was probably some sort of pervert for being aroused by that.

"A coincidence?" Sherlock scoffed. "The universe is rarely so lazy." No, but it made sense, of a sort. John had made no mention of _where_ he was going for drinks, and Sherlock had been foolish to assume that it would be somewhere close to campus.

"You mustn't tell _anyone,_ " he decreed after a few moments of fast-paced reasoning. He could trust John, or so he hoped, if the man gave him his word. "Promise me, John."

 _There._ That was true desperation as Sherlock imagined being expelled from school, attacked by the rugby team, and all other sorts of scenarios, none of them pleasant.

What he would never, in his wildest dreams, have imagined was what John proceeded to say, of course.

"I will if you'll have a drink with me." The doctor-to-be was nothing if not persistent, and Sherlock was nothing if not suspicious.

"Why?" Surely his company wasn't _that_ spectacular.

John, in a surge of forthrightness, admitted, "Because I think you're bloody sexy and I've wanted to shag your brains out since you started tutoring me, you great twit."

 _Well._

 _Not_ what he had expected at all. Biting his lip in a gesture that revealed just how truly young and vulnerable he was, Sherlock said, "I didn't know you were … a homosexual."

Grinning John leaned back into the wall, something predatory in him unfurling at the sight of Sherlock's display of innocence. "I'm not."

"But —"

"I'm _bi_ sexual."

"Oh."

Well.

There really wasn't any reason to say no after that, not that Sherlock could think of.

* * *

 ** _and they lived happily ever after hahahaah_**


	2. Kissing is Fun

**Every chapter is going to be a different drabble that I've imported from tumblr to AO3 and from AO3 to here, because FNet doesn't allow series linking. Therefore, I'll post the summaries and ratings up here at the top, and you can choose which ones to read!**

 **Title:** Kissing is Fun

 **Rating:** K

 **Summary:** Prompted by these tags from joolabee and vowofsherlock on tumblr:

 _After John and Sherlock get together they go to Angelo's for dinner and sit in their usual seat, and John teasingly asks "so do you have boyfriend?" to which Sherlock replies with a definitive "yes" before leaning over to kiss John_

 _#sherlock probably teases john about how he said he wasn't asking#pffft john you were so transparent i am the world's only consulting detective after all#and john just kisses him some more#and says between kisses#that it wasn't his fault since sherlock rejected him#sherlock admits he was too hasty#and john's - 'because' *kiss* 'you're' *kiss* 'an idiot' *kiss* (x)_

 _#i can't breathe #more of john and sherlock just making out hardcore in public please_

* * *

John, before Sherlock, was never into public displays of affection.

They felt tacky, to him, rude, and a bit dehumanizing of his partner, as if they were a piece of property that he was simply showing off.

As it stood, Sherlock had completely tipped that on its head, like so much else in John's life; because, and it took John several weeks after they actually admitted that they were attracted to each other and wanted to be serious, to Sherlock, John was the prize.

Sherlock dragged John around London, holding him as closely as he could and kissing him in as many public places as he could legally get away with, because he wanted everyone to know that John was his, that he had managed to catch the most wonderful person in London.

That was John paraphrasing what Sherlock actually said, of course, because he was secretly a romantic.

* * *

The first time it happened, they were at a crime scene, with Anderson and Sally Donovan glaring the classical daggers at Sherlock while Lestrade tried not to look like an impatient kindergarten teacher being forced to supervise recess. John didn't even remember what he'd said, it was one of his usual smart-arsed comments to something insensitive that Sherlock had said, but instead of scoffing, Sherlock got a delighted little grin on his face and took John's face between his hands excitedly, squishing his cheeks as he pressed their lips together in a quick peck. "You're a genius, John!" shouted the actual genius over his shoulder as he trotted off.

"You broke him," was the first thing Donovan said.

"Did the Bodysnatchers invade when I wasn't looking?" Anderson chimed in snidely.

Lestrade was silent on the whole matter, not that John noticed. He was still staring after where Sherlock had disappeared. "He actually kissed me in public," John blurted after a good five minutes had passed. If he had ever thought about it, he would have assumed that Sherlock wouldn't advertise those sorts of things. He was intensely private, when he wanted to be.

Apparently he didn't want, this time around.

* * *

The second time wasn't public, per se, but they did have an audience — in the form of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and John had just been chatting and Sherlock had said something cuttingly witty about Mycroft, who John had never truly liked after being effectively kidnapped, no matter what the intentions, and John had laughed loud, bright, and sincere; his little giggle, which he had always disliked but that tended to slip out when he was genuinely amused and in the company of people he liked, caught Sherlock's attention, and before John knew what was happening, he had long violinist fingers in his hair and lush Holmes lips on his and a sweet Sherlock tongue brushing hesitantly over his lower lip in a shy request for permission. John, not thinking of anything else when Sherlock was so close (he never could when Sherlock was that close), allowed it eagerly, opening his mouth and darting his own tongue out to flick at Sherlock's.

The nice little cocoon of warmth that the contact had created was shredded open when Mrs. Hudson walked up the stairs, calling, "John? Sherlock? Dears, there's tea and biscuits downstairs!"

And before John could even contemplate pulling away, Mrs. Hudson had walked through the open door to the flat and gotten an eyeful; thankfully, all she said was, "It's about time, you two! I've had a bet going with the neighbors about when it'd happen!"

John flushed, dropping his eyes to his shoes, but Sherlock only chuckled, kissing John's nose before replying, "Well, I suppose you won, of course." He was of the mind that deductive reasoning could be learned, if one only spent enough time around his genius, and so it didn't surprise him that Mrs. Hudson had seen it coming before anyone else, as she'd known him the longest of most of his acquaintances.

"Tea, John," reminded Sherlock gently, latching his hand onto John's and tugging him down the stairs; bemused, john followed with no protest.

* * *

For their anniversary the next year, they decided they wanted to go back to where it all began: Angelo's. Only this time they really would be a couple.

It wasn't planned, of course not, at least not on John's part, but when they sat down they had the exact same table, and John stared out the window while they waited for the menus and drinks, thinking about how much had happened since he'd been introduced to Sherlock so many years ago, or so it seemed. Remembering the first conversation they had here, John smirked and ran his foot up Sherlock's pantleg, coyly asking, "So, do you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock's face went blank as he replied, "No," and John's heart stopped beating. Was this when Sherlock broke up with him? Had he finally stopped being interesting?

And then Sherlock slid gracefully out of his chair, onto one knee, and pulled a small velvet box out of his coat pocket, holding it up as he murmured, "I'm hoping to have a fiance."

And John, who was never one for public displays of affection, laughed loudly and threw himself at Sherlock, making the biggest scene of all and drawing the rest of the customers' attentions; they began to clap and whistle as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and snogged him senseless. When he pulled away, Sherlock looked a bit dazed, and he muttered, "I had a speech. There was a speech planned."

"And a very good one I'm sure it was," John soothed, patting his hand as he helped the other man up. "But you'd better start composing a new one — for Harry."

John grinned wickedly throughout their entire dinner, while Sherlock brooded about what to say to Harry, and Angelo hovered, and everything was absolutely perfect, even for just that one moment.


	3. Dirty Talk Does It for Sherlock

**Every chapter is going to be a different drabble that I've imported from tumblr to AO3 and from AO3 to here, because FNet doesn't allow series linking. Therefore, I'll post the summaries and ratings up here at the top, and you can choose which ones to read!**

 **Title:** Dirty Talk Does It for Sherlock

 **Rating:** M - seriously, no under 18s

 **Summary:** Sherlock makes John jealous. John decides he's had enough.

* * *

John had never figured out just what it was that made him so absurdly animalistic over the thought of Sherlock with someone else, but he was handling it. Sherlock didn't do people. He didn't do sex. And that made it easier for him to cope when Molly flirted with him or men on the subway tried to grope his bum.

The night he came home at half past three, smelling like another man's cologne, carrying half of his clothes over his arm instead of on his back, and walking with the exaggerated care of someone who had obviously just been otherwise occupied, John snapped.

"Who was he?" he demanded to know, getting right in Sherlock's face, backing him against the wall, pressing their bodies together as though he was trying to completely erase all scent of anyone but him on _his_ Sherlock.

"An old friend," replied Sherlock stiffly, looking down into John's face with that mask, that mask that John hated, because it meant Sherlock still didn't trust him with everything. He didn't seem to be fazed at all about being caught walking shirtless into their flat. "Why do you care?"

For fuck's sake, he had saved the man's life on the same day of meeting him! What more could Sherlock want?

"I care," seethed John, "because he's not me. What's he got that I don't?" John was an excellent lover, and not to brag, but he wasn't exactly average, either.

"Why, John," drawled Sherlock. "Are you saying you'd like to fuck me?"

Shoving his body even further into Sherlock's personal space, he growled up at the taller man, "I want to wreck you. I want to stretch you out and fill you up until his cum is no longer inside you, until you can't feel his cock, only mine." Realizing what he was saying, John flushed a little; he'd gotten carried away, let himself get immersed in old mentalities, military mentalities, and he was almost positive Sherlock wouldn't appreciate being bossed about like a common pedestrian at a crime scene.

To his surprise, Sherlock dropped to his knees, running those long, violin-playing fingers over the rapidly rising bulge in Jon's pants; there was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he looked up at John and asked, quite seriously, "Would you like to come on my face first? We can work up to the other bits, I'm certain your stamina is absolutely abysmal after the dry spell you've had. Not even a stress relieving wank, because I'd have heard you."

That damn deduction trick. It'd always gotten his blood pulsing, and now it was roaring in his ears, and before he could second guess himself, he reached forward and knotted a rough hand in Sherlock's silken hair. "I'm going to fuck your mouth like a two-pence whore; I'm going to choke you on my dick, and then when you think you're going to asphyxiate I'm going to pull out and spray all over your skin and hair and you'll be finding it for days and thinking of me." Using the hold he had on Sherlock's hair, John tilted the other man's head back, meeting his gaze square on.

He wanted Sherlock to see that he was perfectly serious, and to back out if he wasn't okay with that. The slowly drawled, "I'm certain I can take you without choking, John, I'm not an amateur," was Sherlock's subtle (or not-so) way of telling him to proceed.

"Open my trousers," he gritted out, really slipping into the role, "And we'll see just what that pretty little mouth of yours can do."

As it turned out, Sherlock's mouth could not only navigate zippers around pulsing erections, it also made the dirtiest, most disgustingly arousing slurping noises as it worked around the head and shaft of his cock, taking it in deep, swirling around it, and every time Sherlock pulled back, he had great shining dribbles of saliva along his jaw and chin. "Look at you," crooned John while he forced his cockhead past the back of Sherlock's throat, "Such a greedy slut for it. Gagging for it, one might say," he punctuated each word by a thrust of his hips that sent his erection further and further into Sherlock's throat, until his balls were actually rubbing Sherlock's chin. Sherlock made some sort of growling noise that officially pushed John over the edge, and he began fucking the man's throat hard and fast, not caring about the tears in Sherlock's eyes. Those deserved to be there, for him daring to presume to allow someone else to touch him. He ought to feel remorse — after all, that was the entire point of the lesson in the first place.

"Beautiful," he groaned as he felt the rush start in his toes, pulling out with a slick pop and finishing the last few strokes himself, his cock aimed directly between Sherlock's steadily-gazing-at-him eyes; with his peripherals, John realized that Sherlock had pulled his own dick out at some point and was jerking it to the same fast, harsh rhythm as John.

"Come on your chest," he ordered hoarsely, right before shooting strands of milky-white come all over Sherlock's face, hair, shoulders, oh god he seemed to come forever, as if his testes were being completely milked for every last drop, just to be used as paint on the canvas that was Sherlock.

Feeling a bit weak-kneed once it was over, John slumped forward, sliding down the wall to sit next to where Sherlock knelt. Allowing his gaze to roam over the debauched man, John licked his lips, then leaned forward and kissed his own come off of Sherlock's lips, plundering that sharp mouth with his tongue, pulling back only to push them both into a lying position.

Several minutes later, when they'd both caught their breath and John was drawing lazy circles in the come on Sherlock's chest, the detective rumbled, "If I had known this was what it would take, I would have pretended to go on a date a very long time ago."

"Oh, fuck off," retorted John, frankly too sated to muster any anger that Sherlock had manipulated him. "Next time I'm going to take it out on your arse."

"Later this morning?" He almost sounded hopeful.

"Perhaps," replied John smugly, confident he had the upperhand now — because Sherlock did trust him. He trusted John to boss him about and not take anything too far, and honestly that was the best gift out of all.

Although the head had been bloody fantastic too.

* * *

 **If anyone feels this is more explicit than mature, I would appreciate them PMing me instead of reporting it to FFnet. I'm not quite sure where the admins draw the line, and I don't want to be penalized for not knowing.**


	4. Sherlock Gets a Spanking

**Every chapter is going to be a different drabble that I've imported from tumblr to AO3 and from AO3 to here, because FNet doesn't allow series linking. Therefore, I'll post the summaries and ratings up here at the top, and you can choose which ones to read!**

 **Title:** Sherlock Gets a Spanking

 **Rating:** M - seriously, no under 18s

 **Summary:** So on tumblr I asked for Daddy!kink prompts, and kinklock gave me this:

 _if you need inspiration, Sherlock getting spanked over Daddy John's lap rutting on his leg and asking for more uwu_

* * *

John was never quite sure what brought it on — perhaps even Sherlock's massive, high-functioning brain needed a break from its own brilliance, needed to let go and just feel — but every few weeks, or after a particularly frustrating case, Sherlock would do something that was very specifically Against The Rules. Not so bad that John felt the need to dole out an actual punishment, but just enough that John knew what his puppy wanted. What his puppy needed.

And he always did his best to give his puppy what he asked for, so long as it wasn't going to hurt him too bad.

Tonight's transgression had been something minor, so a light, over-the-knee paddling ought to suffice; so far it was going beautiful. Sherlock was limp over his bended knee, compliant in a way he very rarely was at any other time; John, having grown tired of the feel of his palm smacking against fabric, had long ago yanked down his puppy's trousers far enough to enable him to turn the skin cherry red. The position was especially humiliating, John knew, because Sherlock was otherwise fully dressed, and the waistband of his trousers had to be holding his erection down at an uncomfortable angle.

"What did I say about leaving eyeballs in the teapot, puppy?" asked John in a strict, deeper-than-usual voice as his hand came down with a resounding _crack!_

Whimpering in the way he only could when he was like this, safe and alone with John, Sherlock scrambled to put words together, feeling like his brain had taken a light vacation, just round the corner, be back in a flash. "D-don't do it," he finally stammered out.

 _Crack!_

Sherlock jumped, his erection rubbing against John's leg and his surprised yelp turning into a pleased moan. "Don't do it …?" trailed the doctor menacingly, his hand already drawn back for the next swing.

"Daddy," he cried, hips moving unconsciously against John's leg. _Crack!_ "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, please!"

Finally, Sherlock had broken down to his most base elements, right where John loved having him, tears flowing down his face as his dazed brain tried to reconcile the pain with the pleasure, and the hand that had been about to deliver another blow came down slowly instead, massaging the tender flesh soothingly. His left hand, which had been placed in the small of Sherlock's back to hold him down in the beginning, when he still struggled, began making small circles up and down the lean expanse of silk-covered skin.

"Shhhh," he murmured, helping the still-teary Sherlock up into a sitting position on that same leg. When the puppy let out a pained/pleased hiss, John smirked and leaned in to nuzzle his neck. "That's my boy," breathed John lovingly. "Such a good boy, my good little boy, aren't you, puppy?"

"Yes, Dadd —ah!" The exclamation in an otherwise quiet sentence originated with John's wandering hand, which had found a nipple to latch onto through Sherlock's shirt. "Oh, Daddy, please, please, I'll be good, I swear," begged his puppy, hips circling slightly in the air, desperate for contact to that aching, pleading body part that Sherlock so rarely paid attention to without John's directives.

"I know you will, puppy," growled John darkly. "Else next time your punishment won't be so … lenient."

He relented, though, just barely brushing his fingers against the fabric as he skillfully tugged on Sherlock's zipper; he'd had plenty of practice, so that by the time Sherlock's cock popped free of its restraints, the other man was practically writhing in the doctor's arms. "Lie down on the floor," he ordered, and was pleased when Sherlock scrambled to comply, falling onto his knees before sliding down until his cock rubbed against the carpet, causing friction that was at once both not enough and yet too much, his ass gyrating invitingly in the air.

Chuckling ruefully, John commented, "So eager." The snap of his belt as he pulled it out of its loops made Sherlock freeze automatically, and John smirked again, shucking his trousers and pants in one quick, fluid motion.

"Roll over," he barked the order, and while his boy looked confused, eyebrows furrowed in the way that indicated he might be slipping out of subspace slightly, he did as he was told, licking his lips nervously as John stood over him, flushed cock seeming to pulse as he surveyed the beauty that was Sherlock Holmes.

"Tonight I'm going to ride you. And you aren't going to come until I say." One look was enough to inform Sherlock that a spanking would be the least of his worries if he failed John in this.

"Please, Daddy, please do," breathed the detective, eyes wide. They'd never done this before, John preferring to plow Sherlock until the taller man's limbs simply wouldn't hold him up any more, and the prospect excited Sherlock, who wondered if it would feel different, if his Daddy would still be so in control (which was a foolish thought, of course he would, he was Doctor John Watson of the British Army), if he would be allowed to come at all.

John, lips still stuck out in that odd smirking way he had, straddled Sherlock's hips, and promptly sank straight down onto the blood-purpled cock like he was born to it, burying Sherlock in to his balls. (In reality, he had been stretching himself lately, in the hopes of this very opportunity. John Watson was nothing if not an opportunist.)

They both groaned, though the noise Sherlock made was more appropriate to call a whimper. "Easy, puppy," soothed John, looking deep into Sherlock's eyes as he brushed a few fingers through that tangled mop of hair, his hips flexing as he settled in; it had been a while since he'd taken, rather than received, and he found he had missed it, now that he had it again. "I've got you. You're safe with me; you're such a good boy; oh you've a lovely cock; I can feel it so far inside me; I never want to let you out; snap your hips up, there's a good lad …"

This litany of dirty talk, instructions, and praise continued throughout the event, John lifting himself up and sliding back down, sometimes slow and sometimes fast, sometimes leaning forward to kiss Sherlock and sometimes leaning back to rest himself against Sherlock's bent legs, but always always always with Sherlock inside him.

Finally, about half an hour later, when his puppy had been reduced to incoherent whimpers and lip biting as he fought to keep himself from coming before he'd been given permission, John relented, bending himself forward to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair, tugging it sharply and growling in his ear, "Come for me, boy, come now!"

And Sherlock did, with a ringing keen of, "Daddyyyyy!" And John came too, shot his load so hard he hit Sherlock in the lips and eyelids, and reveled in the sight of a thoroughly debauched Sherlock Holmes.

Kissing away the semen, John allowed Sherlock to slip out of him, curling his body around the totally limp man and running his hands through shaggy hair as they laid there, before the fire.

And just as Sherlock was dozing off, John murmured, "You're always such a good boy for Daddy, so brilliant, you're the best thing to ever happen to me."

And Sherlock knew he was loved.

* * *

 **As with the last one, if you feel this is more Explicit than M, please PM me rather than reporting me.**

 **Although to be fair I've read much more explicit M/F fics than this and not seen them be reported, so I may wonder if you're just being a bit homophobic. And if you're homophobic, what on earth are you doing reading a M/M story?**


End file.
